


The Scars that Words have Carved

by rattatatosk



Series: a love with intuition [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Asexual Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Recovery, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), past emotional abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:08:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24545911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rattatatosk/pseuds/rattatatosk
Summary: It strikes Aziraphale then, basking in the warm spring sun, sipping at his tea, and watching the being he cares about more than anything work on their shared home, that he is in fact, quite perfectly content. It's everything he ever wanted, all in one place. Everything he loves about Earth. Everything Heaven would never let him have.And then the guilt hits him.(Or, Aziraphale and the 6000-year delayed panic attack)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: a love with intuition [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1769977
Comments: 55
Kudos: 338
Collections: Aspec-friendly Good Omens





	The Scars that Words have Carved

The worst part is, there isn't even anything wrong when it happens.

They're still settling into the cottage, unpacking and arranging. It's no easy thing, to blend their lives together, as wildly conflicting as their aesthetic preferences are, but they have (after a few quite pointed disagreements) more or less managed it.

Aziraphale hasn't quite yet organized all his books to his satisfaction, but in truth, that's a never-ending process anyway. In the bookshop, he'd claimed the constantly-shifting and byzantine sorting system as a means to dissuade customers, and that's _true_ , but it is also true that he simply enjoys the process of organizing. Pulling books down, flipping through and rereading his favorite passages, sorting and re-sorting them into piles and then back onto the shelves-- it's soothing. There is something terribly relaxing about it, like preening his wings.

He's taking a break at the moment, teacup in hand, looking out at the garden as he savors the aroma of a particularly good lapsang souchong that Crowley had brought him. The demon himself is hard at work in the garden at the moment, and Aziraphale smiles softly as he watches him. He's streaked with mud and gesturing quite pointedly at the foliage-- laying down the law, no doubt.

It strikes Aziraphale then, basking in the warm spring sun, sipping at his tea, and watching the being he cares about more than anything work on their shared home, that he is in fact, quite perfectly content. It's everything he ever wanted, all in one place. Everything he loves about Earth. Everything Heaven would never let him have.

And then the guilt hits him.

The admission, even in the privacy of his own thoughts, stabs through him like a knife. Reflexively, he looks around, as if someone might have heard. After millennia spent burying any hint of transgression, he still can't quite believe that no one is watching; that he won't be suddenly caught out and punished.

(Where Heaven is concerned, it's always possible. There's no hiding anything from the Almighty.)

The reflex brings with it a surge of panic, and he automatically moves to bury it. He can't let them _see_. They can't know how fearful and anxious they make him. A good angel doesn't need to be afraid of Heaven. A good angel has nothing to hide. If they see him afraid, they'll wonder why, and they'll start asking questions, and then they'll _know_ \--

Terror, long restrained, wells up in his throat, and he presses a hand to his mouth as if to stifle it. A litany of remarks, carved deep into his psyche over millennia, resume their ancient repetition in his mind. _Stupid, soft, weak, useless_. He remembers the reprimands, all the ways he's disappointed them over the centuries:

 _Aziraphale, it's not proper for an angel_ _to befriend humans._

_Aziraphale, it's unbecoming for an angel to consume gross matter._

_Aziraphale, why are you performing such frivolous miracles?_

Over and over again, he'd failed to live up to their expectations, failed to be what an angel _should_ be.

 _Aziraphale, didn't you have a flaming sword? Aziraphale, you're getting soft._ He isn't supposed to want these things. _Pathetic excuse for an angel_. If- If they find out, he'll be discarded, cast aside, _abandoned_.

Distantly, he feels the teacup slip from his fingers, hears the porcelain shatter on tile.

He tries to find equilibrium, to grasp that warm contentment he'd felt just moments earlier. Tries to remind himself that he's safe, he's free of Heaven now, he doesn't need to worry what they think of him any longer, but it's drowned out by the much more familiar drumbeat of fear, pounding in his ears until he can't hear anything else.

He can't seem to control his breathing, coming now in short, sharp gasps. He feels tears well up in his eyes, and desperately tries to stifle them, to no avail. He feels the wetness stream down his cheeks, and a whimper claws its way out of him. He realizes quite suddenly that he's shaking, his legs unsteady. There's the sound of footsteps behind him-- it must just be from the other room, but they sound a million miles away. Still, there's no mistaking who it is-- Crowley is here, and the thought sparks new terror. He has to pull himself together, he _has_ to, or Crowley- Crowley will _see him_ , will _know_ how useless and pathetic he really is.

Instead, the ground sways beneath him. His breathing is even harsher now, deep, desperate gulps like he's drowning, or sobbing. Faintly, he hears Crowley call his name, and he thinks he feels hands catch him before he topples forward and the waves of fear swallow him under.

* * *

He surfaces some time later, coming to awareness slowly. Hours must have passed, because the warm afternoon sunlight has faded into deep twilight, and the room is draped in shadows. His face is nestled against something soft and warm, and it takes him long moments before he recognizes it as Crowley's shirt. The demon is cradling him in his arms, holding him tightly but oh-so-carefully, as if the lightest touch might cause him to crumble.

For a long moment he simply rests there, eyes closed, trying to banish the aftershocks of that awful fear. He breathes in the scent of Crowley (cinnamon and engine oil, garden dirt and sulphur) feels the steady rise and fall of his chest, listens to the restless patter of his heart. The sensations ground him in the present and distract him from his own corporation, which still feels distinctly out of sorts. The trembling seems to have stopped, but he feels shaky and weak and uncharacteristically exhausted.

Is his corporation malfunctioning? It certainly feels like it. Everything is a bit muted-- not as bad as it had been when he was discorporated, but there is a disconnect that feels similar. It takes him far too long to notice that his face is wet, and that Crowley's shirt is damp beneath him. Has he been crying? He never cries. He shifts, intending to wipe the tears away.

The movement draws Crowley's attention, and he hears a shaky “Angel?” whispered next to his ear.

Aziraphale turns to look up at him, intending to smile, or bestow some endearment, but he finds, in the moment, that he can't even manage that. He draws in a breath, only to have his throat go thick and his nose close up, leaving him uttering only a choked, wretched sob.

“Angel?” Crowley asks again. His voice is hoarse, cracking. He sounds utterly terrified. “Angel. Aziraphale,” he pleads. “Please. Talk to me. What's wrong? What's happening?”

Aziraphale's heart breaks at the fear in his voice, and he reaches one hand up to cup Crowley's cheek, trying to offer some reassurance, but he's not sure what to say. He doesn't know himself what's happened. He swallows, and sniffs, and finally in frustration miracles himself a handkerchief to clear the awful blockage in his sinuses. He miracles it away again after, wrinkling his nose in distaste.

“I'm so sorry, my dear,” he says, when at last he can speak again. “I'm afraid I- I don't know what came over me. I'm- I'm all right, really.”

“You-- that was not _all right_ , angel,” Crowley sputters, hissing. His eyes are fully golden, wide and worried. “It's been _hours_. You just- collapsed, and you were _shaking_ , and you wouldn't _say_ anything--”

He shivers, and clutches Aziraphale tighter to his chest, coiling around him as much as possible with human limbs. With so much contact between them, Aziraphale can feel Crowley trembling, despite his efforts to hide it.

“What _happened_?” Crowley asks again, voice cracking. “I heard you cry out, and I- I thought maybe they--” he swallows. “Some sort of curse, or- or a spell--”

“I-” Aziraphale is about to say _no, no_ , _nothing like that_ , but in truth he has no idea, and that, too, is terrifying. _Could_ it have been a spell? Some sort of attack? He's never heard of any such thing, but the world is wide and even he doesn't know everything.

But- he hadn't sensed any other presence around except Crowley. Hadn't encountered anything strange.

Which means... oh, it must have been _him_. He must have done something wrong.

Is this... is this Her work? Is She punishing him? Had they gotten it wrong? Was She upset that they'd stopped Armaggeddon after all? Or is he being struck down for daring to be happier on Earth than he'd ever been in Heaven? For loving Crowley as much as he loves Her?

Or has... has he injured his corporation somehow? He doesn't think he's done anything differently, but nothing seemed wrong and now he's completely fallen to pieces. Is there something different about this corporation that Adam gave him that makes it more fragile?

An icy tendril of fear creeps up his spine at the thought. What will he do if he ends up discorporated now? Heaven won't give him another body. He- he'll be _trapped_ there, at the mercy of the Archangels, and _oh_ , they'll be even more furious with him, he can all but hear their comments now--

Aziraphale shudders and trembles as the imagined reprimands of the Archangels echo in his ears, and he finds himself curling tighter, trying to make himself as small as possible as the fear crests over him. He sniffs, and he realizes he's crying again.

There's a sharp inhale of breath above him, and Crowley grabs at him, folding him into those strong, wiry arms. “No, nononono,” he mutters. “Aziraphale- hey hey hey- it's okay, _it's okay._ Aziraphale, I'm here, I've got you. Talk to me.”

Aziraphale wants to talk, he does, but his throat closes up, and it only leaves him crying harder, shuddering helplessly as he clutches at Crowley's shirt like a lifeline. It's mortifying. There isn't even anything _wrong_. He's falling apart over nothing. He should have more control than this. He's supposed to be strong. A protector. A guardian. Crowley is frightened-- Crowley _needs_ him.

“I'm sorry,” he gasps.

“What?” Crowley sounds utterly flummoxed. “No, no, no. Aziraphale. Don't you dare apologize. You've nothing to be sorry for.”

But he does. He wants to apologize for never being as good as he could have been. For denying Crowley so many times. For believing Heaven's lies, right up until it nearly ruined them both. For all the petty cruelties he inflicted, refusing to see what was right in front of him for so many years.

Heaven was right. He is a bad angel.

He must have said something out loud, because there's a hiss of displeasure above him, and then Crowley gathers him even more tightly into his arms, tucking Aziraphale's head against his shoulder. Something warm and soft falls over him, and he realizes Crowley has brought his wings out, cocooning them both under their inky shelter.

“You're not a bad angel, Aziraphale,” Crowley murmurs, rocking him softly. “You're the best of them. Always have been. You've been worrying about doing the right thing from the Beginning, and all they ever cared about was their stupid War.”

Aziraphale shivers as long fingers run down his back in smooth, even strokes. “This isn't your fault, okay?” Crowley hums in his ear. “This... I don't know what this is, what's happening to you. But I've got you. I'm here. Whatever this is, we'll get through it together.”

Crowley tucks his legs up, drawing him in even closer. “I'm here,” he says again. “I've got you. You hear me, Aziraphale? I've got you, and I'm not going anywhere. Just... let go. Let me take care of things for a bit.”

He's not sure he knows how to, at first. He's always been so strong, always the defender, always the pillar of faith in the face of adversity. Now he's crumbling, and he's terrified of what comes after.

But he is also more exhausted than he has words to describe, and it's so _hard_ , this hanging on.

He remembers Crowley in his plant room, shaking apart in his arms, and the way he had clung to Aziraphale, then. Like someone desperately clutching at a rock in a storm, barely keeping their head above water.

 _Oh_ , he thinks, suddenly understanding. _Oh, this is what it is, to be known. To have all your flaws revealed, and never be found wanting._

Crowley is here. Crowley has seen him fall apart, and Crowley did not leave him. Did not tell him to _buck up_ or _get it together_. Did not remind him that _you're better than this, Aziraphale_. Instead he gave Aziraphale permission to let go. To be _not okay_ for awhile.

Crowley is _here_ , and he's not leaving. The demon's arms are strong and steady, holding him tight. Supporting him. Holding him together.

And Aziraphale, for once, lets go.

The fear is still there, buffeting him, but it doesn't swallow him under this time. He stays sheltered in Crowley's arms, anchored by the weight of them. He doesn't sleep, exactly, but he allows himself to drift. To be present only in this moment, focused on the feelings of warmth and safety and comfort with his dearest companion pressed close. He reminds himself: they're here. They're here. They've made their own side, and he's not bound to Heaven any longer. He never has to cower before their disapproval ever again. Crowley knows him, and Crowley loves him, and Crowley will never abandon him.

Above him, Crowley's soft assurances echo in his ears, a quiet rasp like the susurrus of waves upon the shore.

_Shhh, shhh, shhh-- it's okay, you're okay. I've got you, I've got you, you're safe. I'm here._

When he comes back to himself, his eyes are dry and puffy, and he is deeply weary, but he no longer feels as if his corporation is trying to shake itself apart. He draws himself up a little straighter, and wraps his arms around Crowley, embracing the demon rather than clinging on for dear life.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley asks, hesitantly.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

“Of course, angel,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale can hear the gentle smile in his voice. “Anytime.”

**Author's Note:**

> Whew, it's finally done! This has been sitting in my drafts since August 2019, and I think I cut something like 3000 words out of it at different points. But having done Crowley's breakdown in "Unpack Your Heart," I really wanted to finish this one up as a companion piece. Some of those cut scenes will hopefully make it into Part 3, which will focus on their recovery.
> 
> Inspired by [this post about Aziraphale's long overdue panic attack](https://kedreeva.tumblr.com/post/186985905253/geeneelee-aziraphale-has-been-repressing-his) and [this series of meta](https://wanna-b-poet31.tumblr.com/post/185878569612/a-maybe-4-part-meta-on-good-omens-part-1) about the abuse Aziraphale suffered from Heaven. Also heavily inspired by Vienna Teng's "The Tower," which is an extremely Aziraphale song.
> 
> Title from "Gravity" by Vienna Teng


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